One year later: Mortality

One year ago today we thought our Goose was days from leaving us.
I stood, crumbling on the inside, as our surgeon told us that he was going to do everything he could but we had to find the source or it was all for not.
We were just one month into a battle against cancer, a battle we had been assured would be won.
She had a 90%+ survival rate.
We had barely started that journey, and here we were.
Facing the possibility of losing our child.
I was not scared before that moment.
I knew my girl was weaved from a different thread.
She wouldn't go down without a fight.
That wasn't her style.
But this was different.
It felt like reality crushing down on me.
My invincible girl was, perhaps, not.
The nearly 24 hours of uncertainty that passed from the moment Molitor uttered those words were, to that moment, the worst of my life.
But in dramatic Goose fashion she showed us what we knew to be true.
In the middle of the night, naturally.
Because clearly she didn't fit a mold.
My Goosey's invincibility level was rising.
She was lulling us into a false sense of security.
A confidence that set us up for an even harder fall just 4 months later.
4 months and 3 days later when I expected a repeat.
Goose just being difficult.
Keeping us on our toes.
I never dreamed that the worst-case scenario she had triumphed was about to become a brutual reality.
Just this time in hours, not days.

So here I mark the one year anniversary of realizing that we could in fact lose a child.
Our bubble was being poked that day.
In the coming months we would see that bubble repaired and reinflated before ultimately bursting.
Taking our Goose in its wake.
And reminding us that there are no guarantees in this wretched world.
My child, my baby girl, through all her triumphant battles was still merely mortal.

Just 4 days later, June 25th,
back on the 7th floor out of the PICU.
Shooting us with her PICC line,
showing us there was no holding her back.

A slow fade

And so it begins.
I can't blame others really, life moves on.

I know it doesn't mean you have forgotten her.
But the pain of every Friday morning.
The powerful sting of each 24th.
A never-ending string of anniversaries.
All mine to bear.

And although I can accept that I cannot change what has happened.
The diagnosis.
The way it all fell apart.

Her death.
The pain lingers, every day.
Seven months later it may be softer.

Not as crippling.
But the fact still remains that I am here and she is not.
And every 24th is yet another reminder of the life that was stolen from my beautiful baby girl.

One year post-diagnosis

It has been one year since our world stood still as the word "leukemia" timidly squeezed passed the ER doctor's lips, coaxed out by our begs to just tell us what she knew. I can remember standing there while my insides just crumpled. Looking at my baby girl, dreading the thought of her leaving this world, and so confused by what was happening in our lives. We were simple people. This, cancer, this life, it belonged to others. Not us.

And then came the parade of reassurances.

She is the perfect age. How can that even be a thing? No age is perfect for cancer.

Her numbers were good.. for being only the right amount of bad.

She was going to fight and win, they assured us.

It was going to be a hellish two years, but she would come out on the other end of it.

She would be stronger.

I didn't want this to be a big deal. I didn't want to be one of those "moms". I created a private group page instead of a public page. I didn't start a blog. I gently whispered to those closest to us what was happening. I intended to drop our heads, strap on our boots and trudge through the next few years without disturbing anything or anyone around us.

But here we are.

One year later.

Back to this day.

Without her.

Half a year

Here we are.
182 days.
26 weeks.
6 months.
Half a year.
Already more than a 1/6th of the time that she even called this world home she has been gone.
Gone.
Just a memory playing as I walk through our home.
Remembering her spots.
Her goofy antics.
Her favorite books.
I'm adjusting.
Going longer but crashing harder.
Searching for the purpose.
Replaying every minute.
Second guessing my every action.
Wondering what moment sealed her fate.
Worrying that I will never know where I failed her.
Just willing there to be a reason for me to be counting up the days, weeks, months, years that my child, my baby, has been gone.

I love you, Sunshine.

There isn't a single day that goes by that I don't wish I could change all of this.

That you could be here with me.

Home where you belong.

Be with me, Goosey.

I need you.

Please do.

Do I, don't I?
Should I, shouldn't I?
Please do.

If you see me out and about, and you aren't sure whether or not to say anything.
To mention Goose.
To make eye contact.
Please do.

I may freeze.
Actually, I can pretty much guarantee it.
I may smile.
Nod.
Give the automatic, "I'm doing okay."
It may just be a simple, "Thank you."
I might cry.
But on the inside, you are restoring my soul.
You are relieving my greatest fear.
You are pulling me back from the emotional cliff I find myself teetering on daily.

Please.
Say something.
A smile.
A knowing glance.
Anything.
Reassure me that you still remember my feisty little Goose.
Because wading through each day as she seemingly fades from people's memories, it's torture.
And every day I trudge on, resenting the world for just moving on.
Wanting to scream to everyone all the injustice that has been dealt to me.
The torment of continuing on without my baby here with me.
Seeing all the little children that she should be playing with.
Watching them do all the things that she should be doing.
Devastated that she was denied all of this.
Hoping that today is the day someone pulls me back.

So please.
Be the one.
Remind me.
Save me.

I miss you, Goosey.
Every single day.
Every minute.
With every breath I take.

Scales tipped

158 days. That was all the more time Goose was given on this earth once she was diagnosed.
Today it has been 159 days since she was stolen from me.
The scales have now tipped.
She has been gone longer than she was even given to fight all the shit that was thrown at her.
And I continue to sit here and ask why.
Why her?
Why us?
Why now?
Why couldn't he have waited until she was older if he was going to do this?
Give us more time to know and love Lucy.
Not even three years isn't fair.
It never would have been fair really.
But maybe more fair?
There were so many things that she never got to experience.
So many things she should have done and seen still.

She never got to attend preschool.

Attend a sleepover.

Have a school photo taken.

Had a crush.

Fallen in love.

Married.

Had a child.

Grown old.

No.

She only got 1085 days on this earth.

158 of those fighting cancer, fungus, bacteria, viruses, and all the poison required to cure those.

And now she has been gone for 159.

I love you, my Goosey goo.
You will forever be my baby girl.

The bad days

In the past 5 months I have to come to realize I have 2 types of days.
The ok and the bad.
The ok make up the majority of my days. I wake up, work out, come home, make it through my day doing what needs to be done. Think of my baby girl, take maybe one or two quiet moments. But overall, I am ok.
Then there are the bad. I start my day off aching. My chest feels concave for most of the day. A physical  pain accompaying the harsh emotional pain, I suppose. Everything sets me off. I'm short-tempered, because dealing with everyone else and their petty problems when I should be helping my baby fight cancer just pisses me off. Everything reminds me of my Goose. And it's not happy. It's more gut-wrenching. I get so angry that she isn't here. I resent my other children because they are. I spend all day waiting for the moment I can just go to bed and wake up in a different reality.
Today was bad.
I can only hope that tomorrow will be better.
I settle for ok.
Ok is good.
Good feels wrong.
But bad.
Bad just makes the pain feel raw. New again.
I hate the bad.
But not nearly as much as I hate the fact that my days are empty without her.
Never great again.
Never able to reach their full potential.
It's just wake up, breathe, go to sleep. Repeat.
And pray it's not a bad day.

I wish you could hold me on these days, Sunshine.
I need you here.